


Deus Ibi Est

by missgiven



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Tenderness, Touching, what if aziraphale washed crowley's feet and i got my maundy thursday feelings everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 11:08:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19973068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missgiven/pseuds/missgiven
Summary: At the church in 1941, Crowley saves Aziraphale, but hurts himself badly in the process.Aziraphale tends to Crowley's injured feet, inadvertently echoing John 13:4-5.(Or: a foot-washing fic.)





	Deus Ibi Est

**Author's Note:**

> Hi welcome to my first Good Omens fic!!
> 
> Basically, Maundy Thursday services are one of the weirdest part of the Christian liturgical year (surpassed only maybe by Ash Wednesday), and I love them? I love them.
> 
> [And like, whenever I talk about God feelings, I feel like it's important to also mention that I'm a card-carrying married lesbian who believes in universal reconciliation. Not All Christians, etc, but no really I do my best, as feeble as it is.]
> 
> Anyhow, I was thinking about Maundy Thursday. Strangers and friends and children have washed my feet and I've washed the feet of strangers and friends and children. A couple years ago I washed my wife's feet at that service. It's weird and intimate at worst and weird and transcendentally spiritual at best. 
> 
> And what if?? What if Aziraphale washed Crowley's feet?? I just scream. So I wrote this. I hope you like it.
> 
> For my wren.

Of course, it was his own fault. Really couldn’t blame anybody but himself for getting put in this predicament right here.

Not saving Aziraphale, of course, that wasn’t The Predicament or even the thing he’d done to get here. That had been. Well. He was grateful he’d saved Aziraphale. Frighteningly so. He was grateful he’d been so distracted by his burning feet that he hadn’t had to notice Aziraphale’s stupid, dear face all lit up like that, after not seeing him for — what? eighty years? He’d seen enough in passing to make his stomach completely vacate the premises, so it was very good he had been too distracted to see more.

He’s grateful he rerouted the bomb onto those shitty Nazis, too. Horrible lot, all of them; and the M15 had been working on these particular goons for a few weeks now. Crowley had to keep making up increasingly convoluted lies to explain his presence assisting the British to those Below. Something about increasing tension. He wasn’t sure Dagon was buying it, but they’d always been a bit dim and so far so good. No, the work he did with the bomb was for the best.

And saving Aziraphale’s books. How could he be anything but grateful he had done that? Especially when he was rewarded with a lingering brush of fingers and a fragile, glowing look shining down on him. He had spun away to walk to the car, throwing an offer of a ride home over his shoulder. He had considered questioning if the look and the touch had _really happened_ , or if it was just a small hallucination brought on by consecrated ground and too much adrenaline. But he hadn’t even been able to keep up the pretense of disbelief. The touch and the look were real, and it was horrible. He had shaken out the hand that Aziraphale had touched so briefly before he got into the Bentley and waited there for Aziraphale.

No, _that_ was when the real trouble had begun for Crowley tonight. Everything that had happened before had gone. Well, rather well.

It was the half hour drive back to Soho where things had really become dicey. 

It’s just that he was in the habit of properly driving the Bentley. Which meant jamming one’s feet rather forcefully into the pedals, over and over. Not that he couldn’t have encouraged the car to drive without any help from the gas pedal. And not that he couldn’t have enticed the pedals into needing less pressure, either. And perhaps he should have done. But with the Bentley, driving felt like a principal, and he hadn’t been keen on giving it up, even for the night.

But the soles of his feet had still been burning insistently from the blessed ground of the church, and the work of driving meant he had been unable to play it cool.

“Oof,” he’d said as he pressed on the gas. “Ouch,” as he’d stepped on the break. “Aaaaaaaah” as he’d shifted gears and then accelerated.

“Crowley, are you quite all right? You must have hurt your poor feet dreadfully,” Aziraphale had said, once Crowley had audibly winced long and loud enough that he seemed to feel he had no choice but to risk rudeness and acknowledge Crowley’s discomfort.

“I’m fine, really,” Crowley had gritted out, wishing the silly angel would go back to being impressed by his car. Or even go back to being horrified by his driving. Anything but this. 

Crowley had purposefully accelerated around the next turn, causing Aziraphale to sway and clutch at his door for support, crying out something like “oh Heavens!” as he did so, and firmly distracting him for another few moments.

The rest of the trip had seemed to stretch on for a small eternity. Crowley had remained bloody-minded about the whole business and refused to miracle the Bentley to be easier to drive. Aziraphale had continued to alternate between fussing over his feet and clutching the door handle while whimpering.

They’d arrived at the bookshop, both significantly disgruntled, but Aziraphale had got a hold of himself first, mostly. “I think you ought to come in,” he’d said firmly. Then, softer: “That is, I hope you’ll come in. You know, I have some Bordeaux from Chateau Latour. 1934. Quite a good year, it was, though you’ll recall the 30s were so sparse with Bordeaux. And your feet of course. But it seems a shame to drink such a fine wine alone. And I have missed you. Do you know, the rain that came in September of that year was positively providential for the region. Such a dry summer, and all of a sudden —”

“Aziraphale.” The angel had stopped babbling and looked over at Crowley, who was looking right back. The moment had stretched out luxuriously, as if waking up from a long and unsatisfying nap. Crowley had swallowed, just to break the stillness. “The wine sounds lovely.”

So they’d gone inside to the bookshop. Crowley had looked around. It hadn’t changed much from his memories of nearly a century before, just settled more deeply into being Aziraphale’s. 

Aziraphale had poured them wine, waited until they’d drunk their way through a first glass and moved past the worst of the discomfort of properly reuniting, refilled their glasses, and then had disappeared for a moment. He’d returned with an enamel basin and pitcher, and a towel over his shoulder.

Which was where Crowley found himself. The Predicament. Staring down Aziraphale, who stared back, clutching the basin and pitcher with a determined look on his face. This couldn’t possibly go well. This had been a trap. Aziraphale had lured him into a false sense of security with the wine. No, wait, it was his own damned fault for whinging about his feet so audibly. But he thought he’d been cool as a cucumber after he’d stopped driving.[1] But of course Aziraphale wouldn’t leave well enough alone.

Nodding once, as if in determination, Aziraphale came and sat the basin and pitcher by the side table next to the chair he was using. He laid the towel carefully over the table, sat down, and picked up his wine glass.

“Where were we, dear boy?” he asked, as if nothing untoward had happened. “I believe you were telling me about your time in Ireland during the teens.”

Crowley sipped his wine, trying to decide whether he would allow the distraction or not. “It was a busy decade. Some fiddly work. Although rather less than you’d expect. Why have you brought those out?”

So much for allowing a distraction.

Aziraphale breathed in and out through his nose. “Ihadratherhopedyouwouldallowmetowashyourfeet.”

“Sorry,” Crowley deadpanned, to hide the fact that his heart had, for entirely no purpose whatsoever, begun beating faster, “Didn’t catch that. What is it you said?”

“Your feet,” Aziraphale squeaked more than said. He cleared his throat. “The church seemed to — to burn your feet quite badly. Like being at the beach in bare feet, was it?”

“It was.” Low, even voice. Heart slamming louder.

“And you seemed to have such a hard go of it driving. And you’ve been minding them since we got in. Are they still troubling you?”

Immediately: “No.”

Aziraphale drew himself up, leveled his gaze on Crowley deliberately. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”  
“Ngh.”

After a moment where Aziraphale kept his cool, even gaze on Crowley and Crowley examined the now-empty bottom of his wine glass, Aziraphale patted his knees and stood up.

Crowley’s eyes flicked to Aziraphale as he did so, and he immediately regretted it.

To Crowley’s abject horror, Aziraphale was removing his cream jacket. He slowly, deliberately folded it and laid it over the back of the chair. He seemed to purposefully avoid Crowley’s eyes while he moved. Surely it was purposeful. It wasn’t a coincidence that Aziraphale’s eyes were fixed firmly somewhere around ceiling level. Probably.

Crowley was grateful he’d kept his sunglasses on when Aziraphale next carefully removed a cufflink and began to roll his sleeve up. His eyes felt as big as saucers. He stared at Aziraphale’s soft left wrist as it was bared, the gentle curve from hand to surprisingly slim wrist. Aziraphale rolled the cuff to above his elbow, showing the entirety of a milky white forearm and the shockingly intimate soft skin about the bend of his arm. He stared more as Aziraphale repeated the whole process with his right sleeve.

Good _God_. Good _Satan_. He didn’t care _who _.He hadn’t seen Aziraphale’s forearms since one fraught experience in the Regency, which had been the first time he’d seen them since the fourteenth century, when Aziraphale had been helping a field of scythemen bring in the hay harvest.[2]__

__He noticed his mouth had dropped open slightly. He closed it. His teeth clicked together painfully._ _

__Finished with his sleeves, Aziraphale finally looked back at Crowley. His jaw was tense. “You injured yourself at the church, Crowley. I would like to,” he faltered, took a breath, carried on, “I should like to wash your feet. To care for — I mean to say, in thanks for — for everything you’ve done for me tonight.”_ _

__Crowley made himself breathe again. “Really not necessary, angel. I was happy to do it.” He had aimed for devil-may-care, but missed the mark by a wide margin._ _

__“Crowley, please.” Aziraphale took a step towards Crowley. He peered down at his face with such intense concentration that Crowley forgot about breathing again. “Let me.”_ _

__“Okay,” Crowley heard his voice say. He was nearly positive he hadn’t meant to say that._ _

__He should take it back. He should say he hadn’t meant it. He should get up and walk out of here right now._ _

__But the smallest, most radiant smile had appeared on Aziraphale’s face. And he said in such a soft voice that sounded like praise, “thank you, Crowley.” And, after all, Crowley’s feet did hurt._ _

__Aziraphale retrieved the basin, pitcher, and towel from their place by the side table and set basin and pitcher close by Crowley’s feet, laid the towel over his shoulder again. Crowley tracked his movements carefully, feeling frozen in place, heart still thudding with entirely too much cheek for an organ that was functionally unnecessary._ _

__Aziraphale knelt in front of Crowley. Crowley could feel the warmth of his body all along his shins. Aziraphale looked up at him._ _

__“May I remove your shoes and socks, dear one?”_ _

__Crowley wanted to scream at the tenderness Aziraphale was radiating towards him. He wanted to kick his way free and run. He wanted to let himself go and bask in the gentle waves for eternity. He gave Aziraphale a very small nod ‘yes.’_ _

__Aziraphale’s movements were nurse-like and efficient as he took one of Crowley’s feet and braced it gently against his thigh. “The water has rosewater and lavender oil mixed in,” he said, speaking quietly and focusing his attention on Crowley’s shoelaces. “It will help to soothe the burns.”_ _

__“Mmgph,” Crowley said, not trusting himself with words. Aziraphale loosened the laces on his Oxford and wrapped his fingers around the back of Crowley’s ankle to brace it while he pulled off the shoe and set it aside. He then reached up under Crowley’s pant leg to remove Crowley’s sock. Slowly. Intentionally. Only necessary touches._ _

__Crowley managed to not discorporate from sheer nerves, which he felt was pretty impressive, thank you._ _

__When the sock came off, Aziraphale stretched out Crowley’s leg, holding his foot up so he could inspect the bottom. His hands felt so blisteringly hot where they touched Crowley’s ankle that he nearly forgot about the burns at all._ _

__“You poor thing,” Aziraphale tutted, completely sincere._ _

__“Not so bad, really,” Crowley said. His voice came out in a brittle, papery whisper. Aziraphale traced the bottom of his bare foot with the tip of his little finger, and Crowley hissed in pain. Aziraphale winced sympathetically._ _

__“I can hardly believe you showed up at the church,” he told Crowley, resting his foot back on his thigh so he could roll up Crowley’s pant leg. Crowley didn’t even tell him off for disrupting the neatly pressed crease. Aziraphale pulled the basin over and deposited Crowley’s foot in it, delicately so the burned sole didn’t make contact with the bottom or sides of the basin. “It was terribly foolish of you to put yourself in danger like that.”_ _

__“You were the one playing right into the Nazis’ hands, angel,” Crowley muttered. He had some dignity to maintain, even as Aziraphale was literally stripping it away piece by piece. He gasped as Aziraphale pulled down his second sock. Were these touches all quite as businesslike as they had been at first? Of course they were._ _

__Aziraphale laid the sock aside carefully, rolled up his pants leg, and wrapped his fingers around Crowley’s ankle. Squeezed._ _

__So, no. Not quite so businesslike with this foot._ _

__“Why are you doing this?” Crowley hadn’t meant to let the shriek out, but Aziraphale had taken a breath as if preparing to speak and suddenly he couldn’t help himself._ _

__“Because — because — well. I suppose…I’m very grateful you knew to come find me,” Aziraphale said, addressing the top of Crowley’s foot. He looked up. “I’m very grateful you did so.”_ _

__He set Crowley’s foot in the basin, breaking eye contact. He sat back on his heels and was still for a moment._ _

__So. Gratitude. That’s why Aziraphale was washing his feet. It _felt_ big and intimate, but this was really just an elaborate ‘thank you.’ Well. That was fine, then. He didn’t need to feel so frightened by the enormity of this gesture. He didn’t need to think about the archetypal image of foot-washing. Just a mate, helping another mate out. Just a thank you. If he felt a twist of bitter disappointment mixed in with his relief, well, he didn’t need to acknowledge that, did he. Silly old serpent, reading into things as ever._ _

__“Crowley,” Aziraphale said then, interrupting his downward spiral. Aziraphale sat up on his knees again, reached out, seemed to hesitate, then placed his hands on Crowley’s knees softly._ _

__Crowley reached up and whipped his glasses off, quick as lightening. He wasn’t sure why he’d done it. It probably had something to do with the new and vulnerable timbre of Aziraphale’s voice._ _

__“I am washing your feet because I am grateful you came to help me. I am washing your feet because you have been injured, and because it is in my power to aid your healing. I am washing your feet because. Because you are inexplicably dear to me.” The thumb of his right hand twitched, brushing onto Crowley’s right inner thigh so, so briefly before returning to his kneecap. “Because it is your birthright to be loved, and served, and cared for.”_ _

__Crowley’s mouth was dry. “Seeing as the reason I have burned feet is because I had the audacity to walk on consecrated ground, angel,” he observed, “That last one feels a little specious.”_ _

__Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth a few times, as if unsure what to say. His brow wrinkled, as if he was working hard at a logical problem. Crowley desperately wanted him to find an answer._ _

__Finally he said, “I meant what I said. If you’ll allow me?”_ _

__It wasn’t an answer, exactly. It seemed there never were answers when you needed them._ _

__But it felt like enough, for now. It felt something like a promise._ _

__Aziraphale was still looking at him, waiting for Crowley’s reaction._ _

__“All right, then.”_ _

__And Aziraphale washed his feet._ _

__He sat back on his heels again, reached out a hand — it wasn’t trembling? — to delicately wrap his fingers around Crowley’s ankle and lift it slightly. He picked up the pitcher (the hand that held the pitcher absolutely was trembling) and poured a little cool water over Crowley’s foot. The water smelled of rose and lavender, and the tight-hot bottom of his foot felt soothed, as promised. Aziraphale replaced the pitcher on the ground and brought both hands to wrap around the bottom of Crowley’s foot, gently, gently. He bent his head over Crowley’s foot and Crowley felt waves of healing soothe the skin on the bottom of his corporeal foot, and deeper yet, reaching into the Crowley-ness that existed beyond this plane and calming that injury too. Aziraphale finished by reaching for the pitcher, and again pouring water over the newly healed flesh. It felt blissfully cool and refreshing._ _

__As Aziraphale set Crowley’s healed foot down and reached for the other one with marginally more steady hands, Crowley watched Aziraphale’s face. He touched Crowley so precisely and so intentionally, eyes tracking his own movements, never flicking up to meet Crowley’s gaze. His face had on an expression that — Crowley could only think of it as _loving_. The determined set to his eyebrows, the tension he’d held earlier in his jaw, all had faded away and left in its place only an expression of deep surety. As if he knew he was in the right place. Doing the right thing. _ _

__The juxtaposition of Aziraphale’s steadiness with what he was doing — washing the feet of a _demon_ , washing _Crowley’s_ feet with such an expression of love — it was too much. It was too much to bear._ _

__And yet he did bear it, as Aziraphale washed and healed and washed the second foot again. Maybe because of the specificity of it. After all, Aziraphale was not washing the feet of any demon. Aziraphale was washing _his_ feet. Aziraphale — after that awful fight, after nearly eighty years of no contact at all — felt Crowley was _inexplicably dear to him_. And had _said so_._ _

__Aziraphale set the pitcher down a final time and reached for the towel over his shoulder. He wrapped it around Crowley’s foot, pressed it firmly around to dry it off. Crowley couldn’t help the small laugh he let out when he felt Aziraphale give another tiny miracle to dry in between his toes. (Aziraphale’s mouth twitched as he worked.) Aziraphale dried the other foot with the same incongruous mix of care and impatience, then set aside basin and towel._ _

__(“Better?” Aziraphale asked, looking up at Crowley for the first time in nearly a quarter of an hour._ _

__“Better,” Crowley whispered back._ _

__Aziraphale smiled up at him.)_ _

__Aziraphale replaced Crowley’s socks and shoes in the same precise, mindful manner. Now, though, he touched Crowley economically, measuring his touches and only making contact with Crowley’s skin when absolutely necessary._ _

__He rolled down Crowley’s pant leg (reminding it to find its fashionable crease) and gently removed Crowley’s foot from his thigh, where he had braced it to tie his shoe. Crowley couldn’t stop himself from giving a small sigh as Aziraphale broke their physical contact for the last time.Aziraphale, thankfully, gave no sign of noticing.[3]_ _

__Without saying anything, Aziraphale collected his foot-washing accoutrements and walked them into the back room. Crowley was left alone on the couch with his newly healed feet._ _

__When Aziraphale did not return after another few minutes with a second hopeful bottle of wine, Crowley decided to follow._ _

__He made it as far as the doorway to the back room, with its little kitchenette, when he stopped short._ _

__Aziraphale was facing the back wall, hands braced on the counter, tension apparent through his bare forearms up through his shoulders._ _

__Crowley should say something to alert his presence. Should check on his friend who had just cared for him so intimately._ _

__But if he did, then he would have to see Aziraphale’s face, when the back of him looked like this. The thought was daunting. The moment seemed so private._ _

__It crossed his mind that he could just turn and leave. In fact, he probably ought to leave. What could they do together after all of that? He’d expected Aziraphale to return with wine and continue the conversation as if nothing had ever happened. But this turn of events. Well. Of course they would need to separate after coming together as they had. Of course._ _

__He shifted his weight to remove himself, then stopped._ _

__Aziraphale had washed his feet._ _

__What to do. He couldn’t leave. Not without saying goodbye. Just give a bit of a wave? ‘Well I’m off then, Azzers! Thanks for playing Jesus!’ No. Stupid. Go back and wait in the bookshop? Well, he was here now._ _

__Then an idea struck with terrible clarity and before he could think better of it, Crowley had taken two deliberate steps across the small room. He was close to Aziraphale now, too close too close too close. He could just smell his cologne through the stronger scent of smoke. Aziraphale had not turned around, as Crowley had known he would not. Crowley lifted a shaking hand. Clasped it on Aziraphale’s bare elbow. Rather than startling, or jerking away, Aziraphale sighed and the tension bled out of his body all at once. He did not lean back into Crowley’s body bracketing his, but neither did he pull the bare skin of his arm away from Crowley’s hand. He was trembling, too._ _

__Crowley realized, then, that he had thought of nothing to say. Had not thought past walking up to Aziraphale. He simply stayed put behind the angel, hand on his elbow, eyes on the thin sliver of neck between the tip of Aziraphale’s collar and the edge of his white-blonde hair. After a while, their breathing began to match._ _

__Finally, Aziraphale broke the silence, but still did not move. “Kind of you to come looking for me.”_ _

__“Kind of you to. To heal my. My feet.”_ _

__“I was honored to.” Aziraphale’s voice sounded hollowed out, stripped bare. He took in a deep breath. “Crowley, my dear, I’m afraid I need to ask you back later to help me finish the Chateau Latour. I — I rather need some time to myself, after all. To recover. From the shock at the church, you see.”_ _

__Crowley nodded, even though Aziraphale couldn’t see him. “Course. It’s understandable, it is.” He wanted to ask for more, ask _when_ he would see Aziraphale again, but he didn’t think he could bear any answer the angel might give him. He didn’t let go of Aziraphale’s arm._ _

__“Come round Thursday evening, will you? There’s a good lad. We’ve still so much catching up to do.”_ _

__Crowley relaxed. Three days. Aziraphale wanted to see him in three days. “Thursday evening.”_ _

__Aziraphale turned around, gently disengaging from his hand. On a wild impulse, Crowley did not step back to accommodate common decency. They were facing each other, and very close together. Aziraphale’s lips were very pink. Don’t look there, what are you doing. Stop. Aziraphale’s eyes were very blue. Hardly better._ _

__“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. He reached out, squeezed Crowley’s upper arm amiably. There was a barrier in front of him that hadn’t existed a moment before. “Do take care, my — my dear boy.”_ _

__Crowley stepped back. “I will. Yeah. You, ah, you too.”_ _

__Aziraphale showed him out of the bookshop, not unkindly. He retrieved his glasses for him from the couch, handed them over with a smile that was somehow both brittle and sincere. Crowley popped the glasses back on as they said goodnight._ _

__He stood outside the bookshop for several moments after the door had closed behind him. This area felt so strongly of Aziraphale, and he did not feel remotely ready to leave it, although he would. In just a few moments._ _

**Author's Note:**

> 1He hadn’t. He’d still been making “ouch” faces all the way from the Bentley to the couch, and been staring at his feet whenever he hadn’t been staring at Aziraphale.[return to text]
> 
> 2The reason the fourteenth century had been so horrible — one of them at least — was both that Crowley had run into Aziraphale in such a state of undress, and also that it had happened only once.[return to text]
> 
> 3Although he did, of course.[return to text]


End file.
